Lovers in London Read online

  Title

  A. A. Milne

  LOVERS IN

  LONDON

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  A Family Group

  Ladies and gentlemen: Amelia. Amelia’s father and mother. Amelia’s dog. Absent through illness: Amelia’s brother.

  Amelia, you will observe, is in the centre of the group. She has in her hands a book, evidently a work of great lore. No doubt it is a history of the American War of Independence. Amelia, you are at liberty to suppose, contemplates the publishing of an American Encyclopædia. W. War. See I. Independence. It will be a valuable dictionary of reference, and you are invited to subscribe for it now, before it is too late . . .

  One can notice the length and beauty of her eyelashes. She is looking at the book carelessly. May be it is only an album of the photographer’s family.

  She is wearing (for the benefit of the male novelist) “a simple dress of some soft, white, clinging material.’’ There is “a red rose at her waist, and another at her hair.” (These, too, are for the male novelist’s benefit. This is as far as he will venture.)

  She has, one gathers, the bloom of youth upon her cheek. Her mouth turns down delightfully at the corners. Her nose, if one may speak of it, is well shaped.

  This gentleman on the right is Amelia’s father. He has his hand to his brow. We conceive him thinking out next Sunday’s sermon. His hair and beard are white; a kindly-looking young old man.

  Amelia’s mother on the left. She is glancing over Amelia’s book. Is that the photographer’s wife? My dear, what a fright she looks!

  Amelia’s dog. Query: Is it really a dog?

  So far the photograph. Amelia’s brother, says the letter, was down with a broken leg. He is at Cornell. One remembers how they play football in America, and is glad it is only a leg that is broken. We feel sure that he will work hard at the University, in order to please his parents.

  And now to put the letter and photograph carefully away in our most private drawer . . .

  It is Amelia who writes the letter—rather shyly, and in places at second hand. “Mother wants me to write and tell you that, after all, we shan’t reach England until the beginning of the year . . . Mother thought you would like to see the enclosed photograph of us all. It is a good one of father. Isn’t Toddles just too sweet for words? . . . I look a sight.” . . . (Toddles must be the dog.) She begins, “My dear Teddy,” crosses out “Teddy,” and puts “Edward,” and finally “Teddy” again. I rather like it.

  The letter is headed “S.S. Antelope at sea.” Amelia has not been very well, so they are coming to England by way of San Francisco and the Pacific and other places. I must look them up on the map. I never was much at geography . . .

  But who is Amelia?

  When I am reading a book of adventure, I turn over quickly the pages which describe the beautiful scene spread before the hero’s gaze as he lay hidden in the cocoanut tree. I turn over the pages until I come to the words, “But George had no time for these things now. Already the Malays . . .” I am like George for the moment. On the other hand, when I am reading a humorous work, I go solemnly through the dullest looking page, lest it should hide one of the author’s jokes. Now this is not a book of adventure, and if you omit a page which looks dull I cannot promise that the next one will be more exciting. Nor should I care to call this a humorous work. Wherefore you need not be afraid of missing inadvertently a hearty laugh. So that you may do as you please with the short explanation of Amelia’s parentage that impends, having nothing to hope for, nor anything to fear.

  Very well then. I first met Amelia’s father at a christening, when he gave me the names of William Edward. (He also presented me with a solid silver napkin ring. I look at it sometimes now.) As he was then my godfather, so he is now, and for many years has been my guardian. By birth an Englishman, he married an American, settled with her in the States, and soon became naturalised. Nearly every year, however, he would come over to England to see after my education. (Generally he came alone, occasionally he brought his wife. Twice Amelia has come herself; at the ages of six and twelve.) I have a good many aunts and cousins and things who looked after my domestic affairs when I was a boy. (Arranged about my socks and so on.) Amelia’s father did the other part. He selected my school and college, spent my money for me till I was of age (about £300 a year it is), and was the sole court of appeal in time of trouble.

  Finally, he is a Presbyterian minister whom I call “Father William.” I owe him a good deal one way and another.

  Amelia’s mother and I have never got on well together. She is “going” rather quickly. When I last saw her (four years ago) she gave me the idea that she was a little upset at having a grown-up daughter. A little soured, I think. A little jealous. “Aunt Anne” she is—and kisses me on the forehead.

  As for Amelia and myself, if you are kind enough to take any interest in us, you will have learnt all that there is to know by the time you have finished the last chapter. (Amelia’s favourite waltz is mentioned in the fifteenth chapter, her favourite live poet in the sixth. In the fifteenth also is named her hero in real life, but perhaps the twenty-fourth will give you another impression.)

  Amelia, then, is the heroine. If you had seen her you would say so. But for my own position in the limelight, I can only plead that as actor-manager I have precedent for it. I have taken all the best lines for myself . . . And, besides, I was in love already! In love with Amelia’s photograph—with Amelia of the family group.

  But Amelia herself was on the sea. I had a mind to buy an atlas.

  Chapter Two

  A Dream of Islands

  In a certain shop in the Strand there is a large map of the world on somebody’s projection. Little models of ships are dotted over the sea part, and if you have a cousin who left last month for the gold-digging, you look at this map and realise at once where he is. Perhaps you find him stuck in a Suez Canal or so; perhaps you are not keen on the Suez Canal, nor yet on the cousin; certainly you have no expectations from him. So you leave him there, nor trouble yourself further about the matter. Only when people talk of the chances of the Baltic Fleet getting through the Canal, and of other things connected with the laws of neutrality, you say, “My dear fellow! My dear fellow,” you say, “I have a cousin there, so I ought to know.”

  But suppose it is not a cousin, but—the daughter of somebody’s godfather! Suppose she is going round the world for her health, which is weak. Daily you watch her glide over the Pacific; and your heart beats high, for there are so many islands in the Pacific where a girl of good family may be wrecked. At last you come down to the window to see that there is one particular little island directly in the way of her ship. It looks uninhabited on the map; but there is something about the shape of it which speaks eloquently of coral-reefs and coco
anuts . . .

  This is your moment. You go back to your rooms—well, it is useless to deceive you—I go back to my rooms, and put on a pair of white flannel trousers, a soft-fronted shirt with a double collar, and a pair of pumps. I have long ago decided that I will be shipwrecked nohow else.

  My hair, I need hardly say, is parted to perfection.

  Then I close my eyes . . .

  Half carrying, half dragging Amelia, I fought my way up out of the tumbling waves, until at last I could lay her down on the dry sand beyond the reach of harm . . .

  I stood up, but dimly conscious of the heaving waste of waters before me. Suddenly a terrible suspicion flashed across my mind. I looked down. Yes, it was only too true. One of my pumps was missing . . .

  I glanced seawards. All at once I spied it upon the crest of a wave. To plunge in after it was the work of a moment . . .

  I have a confused remembrance of breakers crashing over me . . . of being pulled down and down and still down . . .

  Of wondering if this were indeed the end . . .

  Of Amelia, and of sunny days when we played together in the paddock . . .

  And then—a blank.

  It was a glorious morning when I opened my eyes again. (One of those wonderful tropic days which we get so often in the Pacific.) Amelia had already gathered some sticks, and was busy lighting a fire.

  “You’ve been asleep hours and hours,” she said, when she saw that I was awake. “I thought you were dead. This was going to be your funeral pyre.”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” I protested. “I fell into a swoon. You’d have done it if you had been through all I went through last night. I forget how many times it was I saved your life.”

  “Well, but for me you wouldn’t be here at all. So come and find something for breakfast.”

  Breakfast, I must confess, was a failure. Five shellfish and a young lizard sounds all right from a distance; but, actually, the lizard preserved his status quo through the intercession of Amelia, and of the shellfish only one was obliging enough to come undone. The loss of the lizard was a great blow to me. All the time we were struggling with the clams I could catch Amelia out of the corner of my eye throwing wistful glances at it.

  “You’ll spoil that lizard,” I said at last, “if you make eyes at it. It will begin to give itself airs. A while ago it was content to be a breakfast dish; now it will aspire to nobler things. All the same,” I added bitterly, “if it thinks it’s come here to be a pet it’s jolly well mistaken. The necessities of man”—and I took up the toasting fork.

  “Just when I’ve christened him William Henry,” sobbed Amelia. “Come to your mother, darling.” And she took him up in her hands.

  “It only makes it harder for him to leave us. You shall have the tail. Epicures say it’s the best part.”

  “Spare my child,” wailed Amelia. “Strike, but hear me. He’s going to find truffles for us; aren’t you, sweetest?”

  So there, of course, we left it.

  After breakfast we started to tour the island. You must imagine us: I led the way with the gun over my shoulder; Amelia came next, bare-headed and short-skirted, carrying the box of matches; behind waddled William Henry, officially looking for truffles.

  “What do we do first?” asked Amelia.

  “The first thing to do is to find out whether this really is an island, or just part of an ordinary continent.”

  “Fancy, if it’s really Brighton, and we didn’t know,” giggled Amelia.

  “Incidentally we must find the bread-fruit tree, and shoot something.”

  “Bags I the turtle’s eggs, then.”

  “Amelia,” I said sternly, “you are very frivolous about it all. Little wot you that at any moment we may be surrounded by yelling savages.”

  “Wot what?”

  “Savages!” I said, in a hoarse voice.

  “Oh, I say, and I haven’t got a hat on! What will they think of me?”

  The caustic reply which I had prepared froze upon my lips, for at this moment we plunged into the depths of an impenetrable forest. In a little while there was a silence as of night. Through the tangled undergrowth we fought our way for what seemed hours. There appeared to be no living creature there save ourselves. The ghostly stillness worked upon our nerves until we hardly dared to speak to each other. What catastrophe was about to happen?

  Suddenly I put my hand to my brow, and staggered back. Directly in front of us was a “blazed” tree! I moistened my lips, and spoke in a voice which I barely recognised as my own.

  “Whose footprint is that?” I gasped.

  “Please I cannot tell a lie. I done it with my little hatchet. I thought it was the proper thing to do.”

  “Amelia,” I said, “you have saved our lives.”

  We lunched on the sands off bread-fruit and a peculiar kind of bark which I had discovered, William Henry having had no success. After the meal was over Amelia announced her intention of going to sleep for an hour . . .

  “Very well,” I said; “I’ll leave you here, and you shall have William Henry to guard you,”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “Find the india-rubber tree, of course,” I said, simply.

  “What do we want india-rubber for?”

  “My dear girl,” I said, “what else are we here for? You don’t seem to realise the strategical importance of finding the india-rubber tree.”

  “No, I don’t; nor does William Henry, do you, dear?”

  “Well, any how, it’s got to be done. Good-bye, Amelia.”

  “Good-bye, dear.”

  I had a premonition of coming evil as I left her. But duty came first. I turned away, and struck inland.

  It was lonely without her. Every tree, every little shrub brought back the incidents of the morning with a sudden stab of regret. Something seemed to have gone out of the day. I threw stones idly at a group of monkeys playing in the trees, and wondered that Amelia was not there to laugh at my bad aim. The whole place now seemed alive with the chattering of birds and the hum of insects. But they brought no sense of companionship . . .

  I don’t know what can have happened. Perhaps I fell asleep, for suddenly I realised that it was late and cold. There was a wind in the air. I shivered, and ran down to where I had left Amelia. I must have wandered miles that afternoon. I began to wonder if I should ever get there. Ah! the sea at last . . .

  Somehow I knew she would be gone. Perhaps she had only moved away to find shade. Yet, as I told myself that, I knew that I did not believe it. What had happened?

  Suddenly I saw her. There was a little hillock of palms half a mile away, may be; and she was standing there among the trees, with the dark blue sky behind her, looking out over the sea. I followed her eyes.

  Canoes! Half a dozen of them. I knew what that meant. They were near the shore, but I could get to her before they were beached. There was no danger if I was with her.

  Yet I couldn’t! Simply I couldn’t! I see her there now as I write, looking calmly on while her fate drew nearer. And I, powerless to move a limb! Tall and queenly, she stood lined out firmly against the wind. She pushed her hair back from her face, and half turned her head, as though she wondered why I was not with her . . .

  That was the last I saw of her. My pumps gave out, and I had to return to London and the realities again. Yet that evening, as I walked down the Strand, I looked half fearfully in at the window, and when I saw that the island was left well behind, I heaved a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Three

  Greetings and Arrangements

  They had been in London for three days before I saw Amelia. Her father had written asking me to meet them at Southampton; but I had pleaded urgent business. I much regretted, I wrote, that owing to extremely urgent business, I should be unable to return to L
ondon until the Saturday after their arrival. On Saturday afternoon I would give myself the pleasure of calling on them, and I hoped that they would recognise me.

  Now, the truth must be told, there were two reasons for this urgent business. First of all, I refuse absolutely to be anywhere near Amelia’s parents when they are catching a train, or landing from a boat, or going up the Great Wheel, or doing anything of that kind. Amelia’s father is the sort of man who goes into church half-an-hour before the service begins, who gets to his train half-an-hour before it starts, who pops his head out of the window at every station to see how his luggage is getting on . . . He worries. You know the kind of man. Of course, the young should make allowances for the weaknesses of age; but—I know my own weaknesses too, and to save unpleasantness I stay away.

  Also I had been growing a moustache, and I wanted to give it as long as I could. By Saturday it would be “taking notice,” I hoped.

  On Saturday afternoon I called. They had taken a house near the South Kensington Museum. I was shown in, and soon there appeared what was evidently Amelia. I rose from my chair.

  “It’s a dream,” I murmured to myself, “a beautiful dream. I shall wake soon and have fish for breakfast. Ugh!” (They always give me fish for breakfast.)

  “Hullo, Teddy,” said the vision, “I’ve been just longing for you to come. How are you?”

  “Pinch me,” I said. “Ow! Not there.”

  “Aren’t you glad to see me? You’ve grown a heap.”

  “Is it really you?”

  “Yes. You are Teddy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” I said. “The only question is whether you are—they must be awfully bad photographers in America.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Did it flatter me so?” Amelia laughed.

  “Flatter?” I said, indignantly. “You’ve—you’re—’’ she said she was longing for me! Oh lord!

  I cannot attempt to describe Amelia. I don’t know how it is with other people, but when I read that Lady Clara, daughter of a hundred earls, had an oval face, pearly teeth, a slightly retroussé nose, and a dimpled chin—it conveys nothing at all to me. But if the author says simply that she is just sweet, then I think of the prettiest face I know, or have ever known, and, be it country maid’s or town madame’s, there is my Lady Clara. So now, if you will think of the loveliest girl you ever saw, if you will remember that she spoke with the divinest American accent, and forget (if it makes it easier) that she had been “longing for me,” then there will be Amelia for you to the last chapter.